Mors Grim
by AConspiracyofRavens
Summary: As the apocalypse approaches, the Winchesters will look to any means to find an out. When Castiel locates an ancient being who may be able to release them of the title of vessels, should they keep its interest long enough, Team Free Will believe they've found their deus ex machina. Yet confidence is ignorance, and one should never take any easy out at face value. MoD Harry


Chapter 1: Silver Hawk

 **AN: Here we are, Chapter 1 of my first posted Fanfic. And it's a crossover. Have to say, I've been obsessed with MoD Harry, and he works perfectly with the world of Supernatural, so there you go. I'll be doing a few works with this version of MoD Harry, some longer than others. Set post HP, starts in season 3 of Supernatural. Don't worry, Cas will be here next chapter.**

 **To be noted: This story is not beta'd, so please don't hate me for spelling mistakes/ minor grammar mistakes. That being said, please point out any you find! I'm neither American or English, so I apologize for slang errors.**

 **Warnings: Strong language may be used, violence, and somewhat ooc Harry. THIS IS AN AU! In this setting the battle of Hogwarts occurred in 1830, meaning Harry was born in 1812, Ginny in 1813, etc.**

 **This chapter makes use of a Supernatural episode, though I don't plan to use many. I'll be posting the specific episodes used here in the Author's note.**

 **Episode used: S3:14**

 ***Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural nor Harry Potter, all characters belong to JK Rowling and Eric Kripke***

* * *

1995, Devon, England

Placing a single lily on the casket as it lowered, emerald eyes glazed with the sense of loss he dared not express; the young man stepped back silently. It had never gotten easier as years passed; losing more and more of the few people to truly accept him in life, if that's what you called what he was currently living. Throughout the service he hadn't shed a tear, numb to it all.

The other attendants shifted nervously in his company, discomfort visible through hushed whispers and side glances. His appearance bordered on inhuman, shadows seeming to follow him; an aura of death hanging about the teen. A brave few - most likely closer acquaintances – would walk up to him, giving their condolences, though he hardly noticed them. Really, he should be used to this by now, especially after Hermione and Ron. If anything, Ginny had led the fullest life of the lot of them. 182, no small feat even by wizard standards, and an impossible number for any muggle really. Though the number wasn't even close to the one he would reach. Shifting restlessly where he stood, he couldn't help the small smile that crossed his face at the thought of how his friends would have reacted at his apparent sullenness. He could practically hear Hermione's ranting while Luna made a sound (if a bit airy) remark on the situation, Ron trying to avoid getting lectured himself; Ginny would be absolutely furious for how he was acting at her funeral.

He missed them.

Closing his eyes against the harsh sun, he let the warmth touch his skin, the wind ruffling his pitch mop of hair. Taking a breath, he forced himself calm, a mask settling over his features as he acknowledged the ache of loss now cemented within him. Yet he still felt reassured, the world was still moving on, a balance set by the constant flow of loss of life and rebirth. And in that way it was as if Ginny was still there beside him, everyone else too. Though he could no longer truly be with them he could still call on them if he truly desired, though he never would, seeing the hurt caused after first using the stone all those years ago.

No, they would definitely disapprove of his moping, and it wasn't as if he didn't have anything to do, in any case. Over the years he had discovered a few things round the world that had captured his interest: creatures that had yet to be documented, new forms of magic and whole group of people who had both avoided being noticed by the various ministries, but had not even discovered wizard culture themselves. These people seeming to be right in the midst of the ongoing battle against any of the darker entities; deaths caused by the supernatural had dramatically increased over the past decade or so, and it was all the young man could focus on these days. He could practically feel the tension in the air, and wanted to find the source of it all; even if it was only a way to distract himself from his grief. Not even realizing that he had walked out of the burial ground; the young man headed to his nearest residence, a grim smirk appearing on his face before he disaperated, a faint shadow of wings visible - if only for a moment - behind him. "America, huh?"

* * *

2008, Milan, Ohio

The situation could be worse, it really could be. "Technology. Makes life so much easier. Used to be I'd hide in the woods for days, weeks, whispering to people, trying to draw them out into the night." Struggling in the chair he was tied to, Sam tensed as the creature in front of him strolled closer, sneering at his current vulnerability, knife held ready. In the dim room, he could hardly make out the glint of amusement present in the man's eyes, but his aura just _reeked_ of it.

"But they had community; they all looked out for each other, I'd be lucky to eat one or two souls a year. Now when I'm hungry, I simply make a _phone call._ "Sneering down at the young man, the crocotta's words displayed his bloodlust, as he raised his knife; Sam could only struggle harder, barely suppressing his smirk when he freed himself. But _shit_ did his arms hurt.

"You're all so connected. But you've never been so _alone._ " Clark hissed with a playful frown, before raising his knife, jaw unhinging. Figuring this was a perfect moment to act, Sam struck out, leaping out of the chair towards the other; blood dripping down his torn wrists. His weight pulling Clark down, Sam struggled for the knife, clawing at the other despite his body's protest. However, as he struggled to find purchase Clark managed to roughly grab Sam by his jacket, dragging him slightly before throwing him into a nearby grate. Gripping the knife once more, Clark couldn't help but sneer at his prey as he charged him.

Kicking out, Sam barely dodged the strike that had been aimed at him. Taking a step back, he himself lunged, desperately, at the other. Exchanging blows as the struggle continued, Sam could feel every beat of his erratic heart, the blood pounding in his ears, leaving his mind fogged from the earlier blow. Shivering at a sudden sense of coldness in his limbs, Sam's mind clouded for a moment, battling for consciousness. The room was beginning to spin, and his head was only aching more as the fight went on. As if sensing his desperation as the fight continued, the crocotta grinned, blood dripping from his mouth, knife ready as he lunged.

Almost unnoticed by the occupants of the room, the temperature had steadily dropped as the fight continued; the shadows seeming to lengthen their reach as a new presence made itself known. Contemplating the fight going on before them, the new occupant waited for an opportunity to reach his prey. Shifting his heavy wings behind him, he regarded the creature that had brought torment and early ends to so many souls; a disgusting beast. The moment came when the creature lunged at the other, knife ready to strike. As the crocotta moved forwards, tendrils of shadow leaped out at them, pinning the thing to the wall by its neck. The shadows seemed to solidify, becoming a dark haired youth, eerie acidic glowing eyes boring hatred into their prey. Letting an irritated breath out, the new arrival dropped the creature to the floor –the thing hacking from lack of air- and stood back.

Sam could only just see the figure, as his vision seemed to fade. They were a young man, pitch black hair that didn't reflect light; highlighting their colourless skin, sharp bags under their brilliant green eyes adding to their haggard appearance. Black wings stretched from their back, smoke-like, fading into the surrounding shadows that followed them. They were dark, inhuman, and whatever it was _terrified_ him. The being turned to him briefly, tilting its head to the side, bird-like. This was a being that saw death as a commonality, wouldn't be moved by the demise of thousands, and as Sam lost the last hold on consciousness he had; he could only hope the being in front of him killed him quickly.

* * *

Harry noticed as the man that had been fighting collapsed, but he hardly paid him any mind; his injuries were not life threatening in the least. He would wake up a bit sore, with a few cuts, but otherwise would only have a headache to add to his exhaustion. The creature before him on the other hand, well he wouldn't get off so easy. The town he was currently in had been an odd case if he was honest. Calls from deceased loved ones, followed by inexplicable deaths; deaths that lacked the usual reapers that were tasked with soul retrieval marked the happenings of a dark supernatural element. Silently staking out the area for days on end waiting for a next victim to alert him of the creature's location, Harry had moved from building to building visible only to reapers or the deceased. America was far worse off than he initially imagined it wold be, the population of dark creatures out of control, wizards practically non-existent.

It seemed that as dark beings began to populate the country, far too powerful and plentiful to be handled by the American aurors without outside help, the wizarding community had vanished. With the population in danger, the wizarding folk had moved from the country, the ministry and schools being moved to Canada and Mexico; the Salem Academy now located in northern Quebec. Hunters were now the only defence for the muggles of the country, luckily they seemed far more capable then the wizards had assumed.

Following his research, Harry had come across his first hunter quite by accident back in Britain. On a simple vampire extermination in Wales, he had found the run down shack - that had been the nest for the coven - to be riddled with the last remains of the dark creatures. A single man stood outside, taking a drag of a cigarette as he held in his organs from the bloody tear in his side; blood oozing from his side, the pinks and red of the vital organs visible in their torn state. He clearly believed that he would be taking his last breath that night, and probably wouldn't be far off that mark, had Harry not arrived. Rushing to his side, Harry grabbed his arm in support only to have a gun pointed to his head. Huh, muggle then.

"Who th'ell are you?" His speech slurred, as he clearly fought to stay upright; though he didn't seem nearly afraid as he was resigned. Smirking, Harry couldn't help but instantly like the guy, his stubbornness reminding him of himself.

"Help," Harry fixed the man with an even stare, "and really, it looks like you need all you can get-"

"Like bloody _hell_ you are." the man cut him off with the click of the safety, aiming it squarely at Harry's head; if a bit shakily. Clutching his side in pain and necessity, the man regarded Harry with a scowl. Harry had to repress his shudder at the sound of the gun. Really, how did he always find himself in these situations?

"Look," Harry frowned at the man, hiding a worried glance at his injury," I've got places I'd rather be, and to be honest, you're not really great company. But I'd prefer not to have you bleed out here, as a pointless death will just mean more paperwork for me. So just let me at least get a look at that wound and you can shoot me _after."_

The man seemed to stare at him a moment, before giving what he assumed was a grunt of approval. How quaint. Looking down at his hands Harry sighed as he realized he couldn't really just pull out his wand and magic the injury away. Statute of secrecy and all that. So instead he pulled out his moleskine pouch, taking care to keep it out of the man's direct sightline. Removing some thread, a needle, and some butterfly bandages, and some cleaning alcohol Hermione had seen fit to leave in there.

He made sure the man had put the gun away before he stepped closer to see the damage, though he had still manage to convince Harry to drink some metallic water before helping him. Seeming content, the man nodded Harry to go ahead. It had been bad, another few centimeters to the left and the man would already be on his way to his next life. And as it was, that was probably going to happen anyway. Cursing under his breath, Harry had no choice but to combine silent wandless spells with the muggle treatment he was giving the man. He completely numbed the injury before doing a rush healing job. But the man couldn't really be any worse off, so while he had always been encouraged to do full scans before every healing job, he really hadn't had time. So he made due with what he had, old professors be damned.

Dragging the half conscious man to his closest hideout after the impromptu healing, he figured rest (plus a few healing draughts) would sort out the rest of the problems. Grinning to himself, he realized he had found something that could possibly entertain him for a few years.

* * *

1993, Cardiff, Wales

Three months later found Harry in a private tavern that seemed to be a 'hunter' bar. Old wood making up the dreary room, cracked stones covering a good third of the walls, it could have been called modern rustic, aside from the fact that it was not designed to be such; it was simply in disrepair. The occupants were not much better, gruff and surly: they were fighters, and untrusting ones at that. Hunters. That was what theses muggles that chased down dark magic creatures called themselves; seeming knowledgeable about the existence of anything from werewolves to boggarts.

Yet at the same time, they were completely ignorant of the existence of wizards, or anything positive related to the supernatural for that matter. They spoke often of their recent kills, who had the highest amount of kills, etc. He often found the hunters that frequented the bar to either be heading out on hunts, or gathering information about one. They reminded Harry of his early years as an auror; trainees often competed amongst themselves for highest mission counts, or who knew the most spells. However, under the guise of excitement, was a tempered steel will, forged through loss and guilt: people they could not save, families lost, and the weight of their careers bearing down on their shoulders. Always in a rush to experience life, without having to look back on their past, they could be called emotionally stunted. Harry snorted under his breath; _sounded familiar_ he couldn't help but think with a wry grin.

Yet, unlike the aurors, Harry found himself anonymous to this group, and was content to sit in a corner reading through some of the latest monster and runes books he had found. From sigils and seals, to something called enochian, he quickly found himself spending most of his time in the rooms for rent above the main bar. He had been there since first hearing of the place, settling in surrounded by his books. While still greeted with mistrust, Harry seemed to become just another feature the bar offered, a free source of information. Though he was only giving out what would be common knowledge to aurors and those studied enough in supernatural mythology.

At that time Harry had lived full time in the hunters bar, not going on any hunts himself, and having to hide his less-than-human features around those who frequented the place. But he figured it was worth the excitement he got from this new rugged group, he just hoped that he wouldn't slip up and become the target of a hunt; that would be a bit of a downer.

Though try as he might, he couldn't hide the mark of the hollows that seemed engraved on his back; directly between his shoulder blades. Luckily his wings were easy enough to hide, as he was able to make them only visible to the deceased, and a few dark creatures. They only really touched living material, seeming to pass through objects as if they were a fine mist or shadow. His other features required a little more effort though. He himself had noticed how his inhuman characteristics had developed over the years: his skin slowly losing all colour, the veins of his fingers a deep black that faded up his arms, his eyes becoming inhumanly bright, almost glowing, and his hair darker now then the deepest black, no longer reflecting light. And that was without mentioning the wings. Along with physical characteristics, he had realized that if he didn't focus he became visible only to those who had witnessed deaths, or those close to death; though this took longer to notice, as so many had witnessed death when he first became the supposed 'Master of Death'. It really wasn't until his friends had had grandchildren that he started connecting the dots of who could and could not see him at most times; as he had a difficult time of controlling that specific ability at the time. Yet as years pressed on, he learned to utilize his newfound abilities to their fullest.

"Harry." Shaken out of his thoughts, Leonel, the man he had rescued a few months back, stood before him, his glance asking permission to sit. Since their accidental meeting, Leonel had become something of a close friend; it hadn't been long since Hermione's death, making Ginny the last of his old friends left, and he really needed some company to keep his mind off the dread any thoughts of his immortality could bring. Harry had been throwing himself into his work, working himself into the ground and it had shown. While staying at Harry's apartment, Leonel had decided enough was enough and dragged him to the Silver Hawk Pub, the closest hunter's hotspot and information central. Harry had taken to the place as a duck would to water, weeding himself into the place; becoming an informant of sorts who refused to uproot himself from the building. Setting down his arithmancy text, Harry nodded his consent as Leonel sat, accepting the mug of tea his acquaintance offered with a shrug.

"So, seem to be enjoying yourself huh?" Leonel smiled at the stacks of books, notes and loose papers covering the back table, home of the Silver Hawk Pub's latest addition. The bags under the younger man's eyes told of late night research into the supernatural, solving all manner of queries brought to him by local hunters.

"Funny." Harry snorted quietly. "You would think I received thanks for all the work I've done for these blokes, yet give 'em a week's worth of research and you _might_ get a grunt in return. I swear I'm going to go out there and do the job myself the next time someone asks what warding sigils are for. Seriously. I'm surprised most of these guys have survived this long, despite there only being small exorcisms and such in the area."

"Stir crazy." Harry started at his friend's smug statement; the man's eyes betraying his amusement. "You've been sitting here buried in books, finding all you need to accomplish nothing. And don't even try to deny it." His lips quirked as Harry raised his arm ready to protest. "You're clearly itching for change; travel I recon. You've seen it all here, all of Europe most likely. No, I don't mean you should leave right away, that girl of yours is still here, yeah? But just remember that the world could use your help, we hunters are fighting, sure, but we could use any and all the help we can get. And not just from an informant. You've got skill, kid, you should think on using it."

Standing up, Leonel placed a card on the table before turning to leave." 's from an acquaintance of mine in America, Bill Harvelle. Knows nearly everybody in the business, could help you some." Putting on his coat, the man headed for the door, nodding to the owner. "I'm heading out on a hunt, so while I'm gone, at least _think on it_."

* * *

1995, Devon, England

The sun had all but disappeared behind the rapidly approaching storm clouds, the air chilled as small droplets began coating all that stood beneath the clouds. Stepping away from the cemetery, Harry glanced down at the small card clutched in his hand, letting out a shaky chuckle as figured now was a great time to heed his friend's advice. He really couldn't help the smirk; he was leaving everything behind to go on some journey of self-discovery in a country abandoned by the wizarding community. "America, huh?" Putting the card carefully back in his jacket pocket, Harry spread his wings before disapparating to his flat.

He had already packed his important belongings in his moleskine pouch and small backpack. It helped that they both had endless expansion charms on them, the backpack able to store more than twice the amount as the pouch. He had consulted Ginny before she had passed, her eyes expressing her contentment at the sight of her close friend's eagerness. He had isolated himself over the years, the burden of his immortality becoming more real with the passing of each loved one. When they were all around forty they had come to a silent agreement to keep Harry occupied and planning for a future without them, little to his knowledge. Hermione had more or less forced him to learn the art of silent casting once he had expressed some interest. Learning the skill would take years, and mastering would take decades. Add on wandless magic, and Harry had something to occupy his thoughts anytime he needed distraction as the years passed.

Distraction, while helpful, was just that; a way to avoid his problem. Ginny had made sure to get her word in, of course, telling him off for pulling himself into the depression he was currently facing. She had made arrangements for him with a few relatives in the USA and Canada, forcing him to vow to at least visit them after her death. He smiled ruefully at the thought of his old friend, always thinking of others while still managing to be a delightfully stubborn arse, she really was perfect.

Grabbing his bag he spread his wings once more, taking one last look at the bare room. Golden flecks of dust lazily fell, visible in the rays of the receding sun that shone through old blinds. The skeleton of a bed, and an old wardrobe were all that decorated the lonesome room now, giving it an air of abandonment further proved true by the dust seen coating each surface . The one bedroom flat was above an old bookshop in Cardiff, the place held few memories, as it was more or less unused by its tenant. Harry had stayed in the hunter's tavern any time he wasn't looking after Ginny, so the room never really saw use. The building was owned by him, an old gift left from Sirius's Will, and was heavily warded as a result. The current shop manager had no clue as to who occupied the apartment, let alone that there _was_ in fact an apartment above the shop in the first place. Though, as he left the warding spells placed around the floor would slowly fade, reminding those below of the room above - a room they would only remember as an old storage space. At least, that should be what would happen with the final spells Harry place before he left. Sighing, emerald eyes scanned the room once more before the young man disappeared with a loud pop.

* * *

2008, Milan, Ohio

Rain had started to come down in torrents, muffling all noises of the night in darkness. Flashes of lightning lit the world in brief moments, the thunder too distant to shake the city. Headlights cut their own paths through the storm, yet even they could not clear the heavy atmosphere that blanketed the town. The case had been solved, yet it still felt as if something had been lost.

Entering their motel room soaked, Sam was greeted by the sight of Dean holding a damp cloth to his face, cursing under each breath. A devil trap was visible at the entrance to the trashed room, along with various weapons and guns, though to the younger Winchester the bloodied rags by the bathroom were a greater concern. At hearing the door open his brother looked up, smirking slightly at the younger's own appearance.

"I see they improved your face" He snorted under his breath.

Looking down Sam noticed the bruises that were just beginning to develop, while blood still dripped down his wrists. His head wound was perhaps the wort over all, bringing with it a constant ringing and light-headedness. Though his injuries were nothing compared to his brother's, he couldn't help but notice with a smirk. He shook his head as he walked into the bathroom, drying his hair so he could see. His brother held himself in such a way that he would appear uninjured, yet after spending their lives hunting together the guise fooled neither of the two. Sam shrugged

"Right back at ya." He shot back. Honestly Dean was worse for wear, though he would hardly admit such out loud.

Moving into the main room, the two sat heavily on their own beds, a silence forming as they focused on their own thoughts. While by the look in his eyes, it was clear that Dean was thinking once more of the impossible concerning their Dad; Sam couldn't help but think back to earlier. Sam frowned to himself. The events of the night, impossible as they were, could have a lead buried in them somewhere, a hint of a way out. Though he barely remembered what exactly occurred.

 _Sam could only just see the figure, as his vision seemed to fade. They were a young man, pitch black hair that didn't reflect light; highlighting their colourless skin, sharp bags under their brilliant green eyes adding to their haggard appearance. Black wings stretched from their back, smoke-like, fading into the surrounding shadows that followed them. They were dark, inhuman, and whatever it was terrified him. The being turned to him briefly, tilting its head to the side, bird-like._ _This was a being that saw death as a commonality, wouldn't be moved by the demise of thousands, and as Sam lost the last hold on consciousness he had; he could only hope the being in front of him killed him quickly._

 _Yet as he passed out he could hear the soft steps seeming to fade away. And as the darkness engulfed him, he made out a dull wet thump to his left. The sound of something being dragged, along with a gurgling whimper were the last sounds he heard before silence reined and he truly passed out._

 _A soft dripping sound greeted the Winchester as he took in a steady breath._

 _The pain he had receded somewhat, at least compared to the aching thumping that had seemed present throughout his body earlier. So some time had passed then._

 _Sam suppressed a shiver as he groggily got to his feet. Only to freeze at the sight that met him._

 _Through the darkness that permeated the room, a bloody trail was visible, reflecting some of the other room's lights. Following it with his eyes he found the slumped form of Clark by a beam that lead up to the ceiling. Cautiously moving forwards, Sam was disgusted by the stale scent of death in the quiet space. Clearly the_ crocotta wouldn't be getting up soon.

 _Reaching the foot of the body it was clear that Clark had struggled in his last moments, before being impaled on a large nail sticking out of the wall. Glazed eyes stared up at him, the body only now beginning to cool._

 _Grabbing anything he had dropped, Sam made sure there would be no evidence of his presence in the room. Though it would still be obvious to any investigators that there were more than two people in the room that night, there would be no way to narrow it down the two Winchesters._

 _Pleased with his handiwork, Sam prepared to leave, reassured by the silence that the second being had left as well. Though, even as Sam climbed the stairs he felt eyes boring into his back, as if some unseen presence was still there watching him from the shadows. One hand on his silver knife, the other held ready should anything attack, Sam was quick to leave the building, heading back to the motel room._

"Sammy!"

Jolted out of his thoughts, Sam looked up to see Dean above him (and wasn't that novel) amusedly looking down at him, though it was clear his eyes also held the disappointment from the reminder that their lead was truly gone.

"Spaced out a bit Sammy," Dean said offering an amused grin. "So, a crocotta, huh?"

"Yeah" Sam sighed, trying to seem casual. He couldn't tell Dean about what he saw- thought he saw. It would just be another dead end of a possibly nonexistent lead. They would work with what they had; they couldn't go after some imaginary thing Sam had probably hallucinated.

"That would explain the flies." Dean nodded, accepting the confirmation with a barely concealed sigh as he glared up at the ceiling.

Sam leaned back, clearly hearing the sorrow and self-hate Dean hid so well. He'd nearly forgotten how obsessed his brother had been over this case, so sure there would be a way to contact their Dad, if not get him back; any kind of lead to get Dean out of his deal. Sighing to himself he looked back to his brother, a hand running through his hair as he sheepishly looked up.

"Yeah it would. Hey, um…" his voice was quieter than he would have wanted, but he just shrugged it off, "look, I'm sorry it wasn't Dad." Well, that was well put.

"Nah," Dean huffed under his breath "I gave you one hell of a time on this one." And wasn't that true. But his brother needed him, and he could forgive him.

"Ahh…." Sam smirked at his brother, clearly agreeing with him, but kind enough to not say anything.

Standing up, Dean ran both hands through his hair breathing out as he looked momentarily uncomfortable, seeming to decide on something.

"You were right Sammy…."

He had begun pacing.

Sam shook his head exasperated. His brother was working himself up over something he had no right to blame himself for. "Forget about it."

For a moment Dean fixed him with an even stare, before returning to pacing, albeit at a faster rate. "I can't. I wanted to believe so badly that there was a way out of this. I mean I'm starring down the barrel at this thing. You know, Hell." He stopped abruptly, facing the window, shoulders shaking. "For real, forever, and…I just…" He seemed unable to continue, and it _hurt_ Sam that there was nothing he coul- no, they would find a way out of this. They had to.

Pinching his nose, Sam sighed "yeah…"

Dean seemed exhausted, his voice hoarse and only just above a whisper as he sat heavily on his bed in defeat. "I'm- I'm scared, Sam. I'm really scared…."

Sam couldn't respond. While he took a small amount of relief in the fact that Dean _did_ understand the gravity of his situation, he could do almost nothing to assure his brother who was finally letting his mask down.

"I know-"

"I guess I was willing to believe anything. You know, the last act of a desperate man." Dean let out a shaky laugh as he covered his face with his hands.

"There's nothing wrong with having hope, Dean-"

"Hope doesn't get you jack squat." Dean bit back." I can't expect Dad to show up with some miracle last minute. I can't expect anybody to, you know. I mean, the only person that can get me out of this thing is me."

"And me." Sam nodded. No, he wouldn't leave his brother alone, battling against so much. He would always be by his side, no matter what they had to face, even should it be hell itself. But Dean just looked up, a hesitant smile on his face.

"And me?" Ok, now he just sounded cocky.

"What?"

Standing up Dean walked over before hitting Sam in the shoulder, shaking his head gracing him with a smirk." Deep revelation, having a real moment here, that's what you come up with? And me?"

Deflection, really Dean? He knew he had caught Dean in one of his attempts to get out of an emotional conversation, but he would let him have this one. Arranging himself where he sat, Sam shrugged the older off, eyebrow raised. He put on a fake smile, turning to his brother.

"Uh… Do you want a poem?"

Dean turned disbelieving eyes on him, not impressed.

"The moment's gone." And with that he turned away, flicking on the TV as he got up to grab a beer, throwing one to Sam, who could only shake his head. They would get through this, they _had_ to. He wasn't losing Dean, and he would tear apart hell to get him back. A car drove by, lighting up the room, making every bruise and cut visible on the both of them. They had already been through hell; the world had taken so much for them. Yet, they would continue to walk the path they had chosen to take back whatever they could; killing everything that got in their way.

* * *

The night had cooled down, the city around settling into near silence, save the car or two that passed by. Head lights cutting through the darkness that formed around the night. The shadows seemed almost alive, covering every available surface as they claimed them for their own. No crickets chirped the splashes of fresh rain thunderous in the stillness. As a car speed by a flash of night eyes were visible in the shadow, watchful.

Standing outside the motel, emerald eyes were on the brothers, curious. So, these were the Winchesters, who would bring so much chaos to both heaven and hell. An impossibly wide grin split the being's face as row upon row of sharpened fangs formed in excitement. Appearing closer, he was tempted to go into the room; yet as he approached the younger brother, Sam, seemed to tense if seeing the shadows that clocked the being. Realizing this, Harry drifted outside once more. How odd, the younger seemed to see him despite the fact he was visible to beings similar to himself, and the dead. An amused smile crossed his face. This truly would be interesting. As another vehicle passed by, a gleam to the corner of his vision caught Harry's eye. The impressive form of the Impala 67 sat before him. Silently he walked (though glided may be a more fitting word) towards the Impala, staring down at the vehicle. Unsurprisingly this particular car was warded against almost every supernatural creature. Add a few more sigils, maybe some enochian as well, and nothing would be able to touch the car.

At this he paused, tilting his head to the side. His eyes lit in mischief as his grin spread. Stepping forward he placed a single nail, no, claw to the side of the car. He let the sharpened point sink into vulnerable metal, though his hand stung at the mere touch of the vehicle. Cutting a small sigil into the paint he smiled at his work; a way to follow them, a permanent tracking charm, if you will.

This would be too interesting an opportunity to pass up. After all, he had all of eternity, and humans would only live so long. But with what was brewing here in America, he would finally be able to find something to stay his wanderlust for at least a decade if not more. The fates were here, weaving the lives of those who would bring consequence upon the world. Though knowing the brothers now, he knew that they would not simply let the world have its way; they would fight, but for what he could not even begin to guess. Though, no matter what the ending would be, he would still be there. They wouldn't be able to keep him away if they tried. After all, no one escapes Death.

* * *

 **How's that for chapter 1?**

 **I plan to make the chapters at least 4000+ words each, but that being said, I'll only be posting every 2-3 weeks due to school.**

 **I expect this fic to be about 3-5 chapters.** **Though the next one will be up soon.**

 **Hope you enjoyed, and please reveiw! I love feedback, even if it's just to say things like "This is good" or "I didn't like this" Have a great summer, and hope to see you soon.**

 **\- AConspiracyofRavens**


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